All to do with caring
by Zora Arian
Summary: Sherlock's known to be a 'cold, calculating machine', a 'high-functioning sociopath'-not psychopath, please do your research. But with Molly around, does those labels still stands?
1. Chapter 1

**Hai, thanks for giving my fic...story...fanfic...a try **

**I absolutely love Molly! I feel that Molly's one of the underestimated strong women we will ever know (not strong physically, but in spirit on helping people), and that makes her even more lovable because she is actually one of us plain girls, who has a crush on a handsome and brilliant man who doesn't even acknowledge her presence (admit it, we all went through this phase, obsessing over a cute guy or celebrity...), and because of that, we can relate to her. Anyways, I hope both weren't OOC. That would be the worst thing to ever happen... Whatever mistakes are, of course, mine (can't exactly put the blame on my hamster, can I?). This is set in Season 2. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Hai, sorry, no; I do not own Molly or Sherlock. Both belong to BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

Molly sat at her desk, staring at the autopsy papers in front of her. She had just attended to one of Sherlock's ever strange requests, who seemed to come without his friend trailing behind. "Just a minor misunderstanding. He was keen on not talking to me, though," Sherlock replied when Molly asked him on John's absence.

She sighed and rested her head in her arms on the table. It was about 4 months after coming to know that the guy she liked, really liked, was, in fact, a consulting criminal who faked his feelings for her, just to get near Sherlock. She was horrified at that knowledge and profusely apologised to John and Sherlock, John repeatedly saying it was not her fault, Sherlock ignoring her apologies.

Just when she thought she could finally have someone to love her back, Fate decided to turn the tables.

"Gosh, I'm now, what? 32? And the only person -okay, cat- that loves me is Toby. Though he has not exactly verbalised his feelings for me, so for that I'm also not sure," Molly mumbled into her arms.

She was definitely not a sociable person, ever since attending school. Sure, she had a few friends then, and even now, but they were, unsurprisingly, of the female gender. Some of them were already married, and the rest were either engaged or had a boyfriend who would be proposing to them in a few weeks' time. And what about her?

A single early thirties woman with a cat which either loves her or treats her as a maid (Gosh, Toby seems to be eating a lot lately, Molly mentally added).

A woman who did not have a **single **boyfriend during her teen years, and has a girlish crush on a certain tall, dark, handsome (but also arrogant, vain and bloody clueless) guy who notices the chemicals in her lab rather than her.

She sighed again. A single tear drop fell onto her autopsy reports as she recalled the Christmas incident 2 months ago. Those things she heard coming out from his mouth... No matter how hard she tried to rationalise Sherlock's actions that night (frustrations on the festive happiness? Or not getting any presents due to his, uh, 'not nice' behaviour?), it still hurt and stung as it gave her a sign that maybe he was what people had said: cold. Then, the 'Jim from IT' fiasco had finally brought her to reality. A reality that she might just stay single forever.

"Unless I marry Toby, of course. I'm sure he wouldn't detest my proposal if I gave him more of his favourite biscuit."

Then Molly gave a bitter laugh. God, did I just thought of marrying a **cat **because I'mdesperate to change my 'single' status?, she thought to herself, as another fat tear rolled down her cheek.

She then took the time to remember why she still blush everytime Sherlock's in the room, why she would stammer an answer to him, why her attempts at laughing turned into a weird giggle when he was right in front of her. Why she still like him. Then she immediately got her answer: he cares.

Well, actually, he has the ability to care. She knew that he must care for John and Mrs Hudson to a degree where he could tolerate their presence, because, for one, he does not bother with people. Hell, he even comforted (or at least tried to) Sarah after the case John had titled 'The Blind Banker' on his blog. She guessed, to a certain degree again, he cared for her too, no matter how small that was, because after saying those horrible things at Christmas, he apologised (for the very first time, she soon found out) to her and even gave her a peck on her cheek. She blushed slightly at the feeling of Sherlock's lips on her cheek, albeit for a milisecond. These kind of emotions that the 'cold, calculating machine' experienced were rare, and Molly knew the number one reason why she continued to swoon over him: she wanted to see more of this 'feeling' side of the 'high-functioning sociopath'.

"Do you need a shoulder?" a low voice travelled across the morgue and Molly jumped out of her skin, her thoughts evaporating to be replaced with surprise. She stood and turned around to be greeted with the sight of the tall consulting detective draped in his customary scarf and coat.

"Oh, umm...," here she frowned, "do I need a shoulder? I, uh, think I have plenty of those here, especially ones that are still attached to their bodies..."

"No. Not that kind of shoulder."

Both stood there for 5 seconds before Molly asked, "What makes you think I would like a shoulder?"

"Tear tracks visible on your cheeks," Molly quickly wiped her cheeks, "eyes slightly rimmed with red, and droplets of water on your papers, presumably tears coming from you, judging from the fact you laid your head on that table not moments ago. Ergo, you're upset."

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath before continuing, "I am not one to be in touch with my feelings, but I do know that when a female is upset –eventhough the subject that's considered upsetting is too trivial, why even bother?- she would like a shoulder. Or somewhere along those lines."

Molly looked at him, puzzled. "She needs a shoulder? Why would she...oh. Oh! You must be talking about 'a shoulder to cry on'."

"Ah, yes. I must be talking about...that."

"Well, no thank you anyway. I don't need to cry on a shoulder, live or dead otherwise."

"Oh," Sherlock said, thinking for a moment before continuing, "Do you need a hug instead?"

Molly's eyes grew as big as saucers as she spluttered, "Wha-what? A-a hug? Wh-why would I need a hug?" She then gave a nervous giggle.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her stammering and shrugged. "Besides coming to know that females would like a 'shoulder to cry on', as you have just mentioned, some of them would rather prefer a hug, although I could not comprehend the benefit it has or gives."

"Oh..."

There was an awkward silence for a while until Molly spoke up. "Do you mind if I accept your offer?" she asked shyly, looking at the floor and not daring to look into those cool grey eyes of Sherlock's, but eventually she did, only because he had not said anything for quite some time. She was worried, and very scared, that he would say no.

Sherlck was wearing an unreadable expression, then stretched out his arms, hands palm-up. "No, I do not mind, since I was, in fact, the one who offered."

Molly bit her lower lip before carefully approaching him, as if she was walking towards a terrified animal which would flee at any fast movement it saw. When she got right in front of him after what seemed a mile of walking, she slowly brought her arms around his waist, feeling him tense up at the movement before slowly relaxing, then she felt his arms circle her small frame, hands resting on the small of her back. She turned her head and rested her cheek on the right side of his chest. She could hear his heartbeat thumping strongly beneath the black shirt he was wearing. Strange, she thought, it seems...faster than what I imagined his normal heart rate would be like.

Molly Hooper felt nice, warm, comforted in the muscular arms of Sherlock Holmes and she felt the stress of her (love) life ebbed away, leaving her in a state of peace, for once. Don't worry, Molly, she comforted herself, you'll find a guy eventually. Seems God does not want to pair you with anyone else before and now, because He's going to give you someone you truly deserve, and who deserves you, in the future. He just wants you to be patient for now. Yup, I'll be patient, Molly mentally added, a small smile forming on her lips.

They stayed like that for a full minute until Molly made to move out of the embrace, feeling much better. She felt the arms around her tighten and, realising she could not get out easily right then, looked up to Sherlock, who was looking straight ahead. "Umm..."

Sherlock looked down into her brown eyes and expressed what seemed to be surprise before letting go. Both stood opposite each other, Molly, looking down to the floor, slowly feeling her cheeks heating up, Sherlock putting his hands into his coat pocket, looking at a point above her head. He cleared his throat before breaking the silence. "So...feeling any better?"

Molly shyly whispered, not looking up. "Umm...yes," before adding, "thank you."

He gave a curt nod before moving away. "I better be off now."

Before he could open the door, Molly turned around to face Sherlock. "Uh, you said you couldn't comprehend the benefit a hug gives."

Sherlock, one hand poised on the door handle, looked towards her, drawing out the word 'yes'.

"Well, it sort of gives the...female the impression that the hugger...actually cares...for her...," Molly quietly said before looking up to see Sherlock staring back.

"Oh, uh, bye!" she said, quickly giving a small wave in goodbye and hurriedly turned to her desk with her autopsy reports (that still needed to be completed).

She heard the morgue doors open and close, and allowed a small smile to again form upon her blushing face. At the same time, she wondered why Sherlock's cheeks seemed a little...pinker than usual.

**And there I feel that Sherlock does have the ability to care; he just does it in his own unconventional way. If he could somewhat care for John, Mrs Hudson, and even Sarah, why wouldn't he do the same for Molly? John (ever the gentleman) would have scolded him for not doing anything to make Molly better if he were there in the story, since Sherlock is somone who has known Molly for quite a long time, longer than John. So not wanting to hear the continued nagging voice of John in his head, Sherlock took upon himself to, at least, imitate comforting. Well, after that, did Sherlock felt something? Who knows ;)**

**Thanks for taking the time to read. Hope you enjoyed this :DDD**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hai :) Hmm, Chapter 2. After posting the previous fic, I immediately got this idea. I initially wanted to post this as a separate one-shot, but it, uh, unintentionally had similar elements to the first story, so I decided to just have it as Chapter 2. Changed the summary (frankly, I like it very much :D), but the title's staying. All mistakes spotted are entirely mine (Hamster still refuses to take half the responsibility), so, welcome to Chapter 2 :)**

**Disclaimer: Uh, again, no. I absolutely do not have any ownership of Molly and Sherlock; both belong to BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

Molly was feeling sick. Very sick, as in flu-cum-cough-cum-internal injury (okay, that was extra) sick. She was also feeling a slight throbbing in her head. She ignored the reports on her desk right in front of her and instead wondered why she was sick.

"Was it 'cause I did not take the recommended 6 hours of sleep ever since working in Bart's? Or was it the take-away last night? Oh, wait. I started coughing on Monday; now's Thursday. Maybe it was-," Molly absentmindedly talked out loud, trying to figure out what made her this way.

"Your immune system's weak, Molly. Not taking the required hours of rest for a typical working early thirties woman; eating at odd hours, not having proper meals, and no fruits?; staying late into the night here in Bart's working; all this affects your already fragile immune system. Why would you subject yourself to such torture on your own body?" Sherlock interrupted her train of thoughts (or one-sided conversation) and popped up silently beside her, giving her another one of the frights she had gotten when it concerned him. He reached out to grab the iodine in front of her and strode back to the microscope where he was working earlier on.

John, after sending a text to, none other than, Sarah, came over to her. "Sherlock's right, and I agree with him. Why would you do…whatever he just said?"

Molly sheepishly looked at him while quietly replied, "Maybe because I have to help a certain someone who barges through the doors, his preferred timing being 11.30 in the night?"

John gave a hearty laugh while Sherlock, not having heard what was said, glanced his way before turning back to the lenses, adjusting the magnification.

"Yup, I have to agree with **you** for that," John said, then gave her a smile, "but still, you're sick now. Why didn't you take a day off?"

"Umm, besides helping said certain someone?" John laughed again, nodding, "I have paperwork, and tons of it."

"Yeah, I understand com…," John started but was interrupted by a text. He read it and looked over his shoulder to where Sherlock sat. "Mrs Hudson needs some groceries."

No reply.

"As in now?"

Silence.

"God, you…," John brought his right hand to his eyes and slid them down his face, turning back to Molly, after seeing her questioning face, explaining, "Mrs Hudson's hip is acting up again, so I volunteered myself **and** **Sherlock **to go get any groceries she may need for the time being. Apparently, Sherlock's not too keen on helping a weak old lady."

"She is definitely **not **a 'weak old lady', John. Did you forget the time she almost bashed my head in because I forgot to take out the pair of feet from the cupboards? And she was only using her softest pillow," Sherlock spoke up, absentmindedly reaching up to the spot on his head where he was hit.

John rolled his eyes while Molly stifled a giggle. "Well, whatever mate. Looks like you're not moving an inch from that seat of yours, so I better go now. See if you don't get your head bashed in again by Mrs Hudson when she finds out I was the one to do the shopping **alone**," John declared while moving to the doors.

"Then I shall inform Sarah on how you did not enjoy her Valentine gift to you. A 'hideously pink teddy bear', did you say?" Sherlock said, getting even with John while not looking up.

"Wha…Ugh,you…," John started, but decided to let this one slide, "Well, bye, Molly," he continued, giving the pathologist a smile which she reciprocated with a wave, then went out.

At that instant, she coughed. And coughed. And sneezed.

"Ugh…," she finally managed, sniffling.

Gosh, this might be worse than I initially thought, Molly thought. She sneezed again and felt her nose running. She panicked for a moment, not wanting to drip on the papers in front of her, until a box of tissues was shoved into her line of sight. She quickly grabbed one, cleared her nose before looking up to Sherlock. "Thank you," she muffled into the tissue.

Sherlock gave a curt nod, then stood there staring at her. Molly did not realise that she was being stared at for she had picked up her pen to complete the first paper on the pile. Noticing that the morgue was as silent as a graveyard (well, not that all surprising, given that there **were** dead people in the morgue and they don't talk), she looked up to her right to see Sherlock there. Even scarier was that he didn't seem to be blinking. Molly had another Sherlock-induced fright, which brought him out of his trance or mind palace, and quickly said "Tea?"

Molly blinked, trying to fight the blush that was creeping up to her cheeks, then sighed, coughing slightly, "Sherlock, if you had wanted tea, you could have mentioned so, not **stone** beside me until I noticed, giving me another fright."

"No, not me. You."

"Huh? Me…what?"

"Do **you** want tea?"

Molly blinked again, in surprise. "A-are you okay Sherlock? Did you, uh, get sick too?"

Sherlock frowned slightly, his eyebrows coming together slowly. "No, I am perfectly fine. I do not believe I am…sick. Or am I? One is never sure whether one's immune system's in fit condition or not, though, so maybe I am," he paused before enquiring, "Why do you think I am…sick?"

Molly thought for a moment before replying in a small voice, "Well, you, uh, never cared about me before…"

"And I couldn't now, because?"

She raised her eyebrows at his question, wrinkling her nose as she felt another sneeze coming. He raised his back (just to copy her), before sighing, "Remember last week, when I said I know females wanted a shoulder?"

"A shoulder to cry on," she corrected.

"Fine, a 'shoulder to cry on'. On the topic of females, I also know that when they are sick, they much rather like a hot beverage. I do not think coffee's suitable for your condition now, so the next logical thing is tea. So I ask again: Do you want tea?"

"Uh,umm…yes, please?" she replied quietly.

"Good," Sherlock nodded, then made to move to the break room where the tea bags and mugs were, "I shall proceed to make you one now. Do not go into a coma while I'm out."

Molly rolled her eyes before eliciting a coughing fit. She breathed in deeply to try to stop coughing and relax her lungs, and she successfully calmed her lungs (and racing heart) down. She wondered why Sherlock bothered to make tea for her, no, scratch that, why he was trying to make her feel better. Last week, with the hug, and now, tea. She blushed slightly at the memory of hugging the man, and she felt a small smile on her lips.

Just then, a mug appeared in front of her and she realised it was meant for her (hard not to notice the cat pictures on the mug and immediately not think of 'Molly Hooper'). She took it with both hands, not meeting the consulting detective's grey eyes, their fingers brushing each other before he brought his hand back to his side. "Thank you," Molly said before taking a sip of the tea, feeling the temperature and taste of it just right for her. She could not stop the involuntary 'Mmm' at the deliciousness of the tea.

Again there was silence. Again she looked up to Sherlock. Again he was not blinking. "Eh?"

"Is it okay for you? The tea?" he asked.

"Oh, it's perfect," she smiled, a tinge of pink appearing on her cheeks.

"Okay, good," Sherlock nodded, "though I have to admit, the tea was 2 degrees over the normal tea temperature, so I was…worried it might be too hot for you," he continued, looking at a point above her head.

Molly frowned. Does 2 degrees make a difference?, she thought, then replied, "No, it's fine! Thank you again."

He gave another curt nod before heading back to the microscope. "I need to complete a few more analysis, then I will be out."

"Okay," Molly said, then returned to her warm tea and papers.

After a few minutes, Molly yawned and felt sleepy. The tea's too perfect for me; now I feel like going to La-La land, she thought. Maybe I'll take a short nap. Need a bit of rest anyway 'cause I'll be working till 1 in the morning (as usual). With that, abandoning her tea and pushing the papers to her left Molly laid her head in her arms on the desk and took a short rest.

/

The 'short' rest being 4 hours. She was shaken out from Dreamland and into Real Life, quite vigorously, by the ex-Army doctor, who seemed to be saying something…

"…lock? Molly?" he was saying.

"Uh, hai John," Molly said blearily, rubbing her eyes and blinking to get a better grasp at the image of John smiling down at her.

"Hey, good evening, Sleeping Beauty," he joked.

"Ah, my knight-not-in-shining-armour. Seems I was awaken by shaking rather than a kiss."

"Sarah's gonna be mad at me if I gave you a kiss," he smirked.

"Fine, fine, shaking's a **great** way to wake a lady up."

John laughed while Molly sat straighter. She felt something slide down on her back and caught it before it dropped to the floor. She looked at the blanket she had so often used when deciding to have short naps in the morgue. She wondered when had she grabbed the blanket and put it around herself.

"Molls, where's Sherlock?" John asked.

"Huh? Oh, he's-," she pointed to the microscope when he had been doing his analysis awhile ago and found out he was not there, "-not there…"

"Uh, yes, apparently," John raised an eyebrow. Then his phone sounded, alerting him to a text. He read it for a moment then said to Molly, "Looks like the great consulting detective figured out who the murderer was and had gone to catch him. Leaving me with paper bags full of rice and bread."

Molly laughed along with him. Then John asked her about her current condition.

"I'm feeling quite better, actually, though still sleepy. Sherlock made me tea," she added, gesturing to the mug of cold tea.

"He did?" John asked, surprised.

Molly turned to the left side of the desk, wanting to continue with the paperwork, when she saw a note with neat handwriting on top of the lot. She picked it up, reading to herself silently.

The blanket was the only one well-worn; ergo it must be the one you regularly use during yours naps in Bart's. I advise you to go home and sleep on your bed; hunching over a table while resting is not good for your posture. Would not like to see you with backache next time I come in. –SH

Molly smiled softly at his words, before having the note snatched away by John, who mouthed what was written. He then looked over to her, giving her a raised eyebrow, while she felt her cheeks slowly heating up.

John broke the silence by saying, "Looks like a 'certain someone' cares for your well-being after all.' Molly could do nothing besides giving him a small nod in assent.

**Again, I hope they were not OOC. After what happened in Chapter 1, I guess Sherlock would be more inclined to make Molly feel better (though John's nagging would still ring in his ears), but he'd make the gestures small, 'cause I don't see him as the type who would willingly go all out in making someone feel better. If they still feel worse to wear, well…let's just say Sherlock's done his part; he'd leave the rest to John :D Again, immediately after writing this on paper before typing it out, I got additional ideas, for chapters 3 and 4, so I hope you'd be inclined to continue reading this!**

**Thank you for reading; hope you've enjoyed this :DDD**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hai again :) Just wanna say a few words: I am absolutely honoured that you, reader, had taken the time to read this 2****nd**** fic of mine (which may or may not be that good, for my English ain't that advanced), and some went to review. THANK YOU SO VERY MUCH! ^.^ Mistakes spotted are, again, mine (Hamster's gotten a bit angry with me…) Alright, with that, I hope this chapter's as good as the 1****st**** and 2****nd**** one :)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Molly or Sherlock or John; they belong to BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

Walking through the corridors of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital towards the morgue where she worked, Moly Hooper touched the long scratch on her left arm that she had gotten not long ago. "Ouch…" Yup, it still hurt.

She got to her morgue doors and digged for her keys in her oversized sling bag (**really** need to clear this bag; she had no idea what was in it anymore…EWW! Why was she feeling something…sticky?). After a few seconds of searching, (that sticky substance was glue. Why In The World Did She Have Glue In Her Bag?), she found them and proceeded to put the right key into the lock and turn it open, but stopped when she noticed a slight gap on the door. She huffed, then pushed the door open, to reveal a red-jumpered John Watson and a hunched-over-the-microscope Sherlock Holmes. John gave a sheepish smile in greeting; Sherlock ignored her.

"Ah. Seems like the lock was picked, and the two 'burglars' are still in the scene of the crime; one wearing a red jumper, the other using the microscope," Molly dryly analysed the situation.

"A deft observation, Molly. You would do much better than the baffoons down at the Yard," Sherlock sarcastically replied.

John did not make any remarks, because he was concentrating on Molly and her…various gifts. "Molly, are those scratches?"

Molly, surprised that he was asking about her rather than continuing the conversation, looked down, hands wrung together, before answering in a timid voice, "I, uh, got into a fight…"

John hung his mouth agape; Sherlock looked over his shoulder.

"…with Toby."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned his gaze back to the microscope while John barked out a laugh which he immediately tried to conceal with his hand. "Uh, sorry about that."

"Nah, it's okay. I guess. I would do the same if i were you. Only difference would be that I'd continue laughing."

John grinned broadly before enquiring, "So, why'd you got into a…fight with Toby?"

Molly steeled herself, took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, before looking at him with confidence and bravado. "I…," was all she could manage before all the bravado seeped out of her and she visibly deflated. "…saw Toby very dirty this morning, so I decided to wash him. I carried him, and somehow he knew I was headed to the bathroom for he scratched at me," she pointed at her left arm before standing straighter and continuing, "but I was determined to make him all nice and clean, so I bathed him in the tub. After that, he jumped on my shoulder and ran out."

She looked down, giving a weary smile. "Before you can say it, yes. I've learnt that cats, and Toby, dislike water. The hard way…"

John couldn't take it anymore; he gave a hearty laugh, Molly joining him. She could have sworn she saw Sherlock smiled for a moment, but wasn't sure.

"Okay then, brave Molly," John said after calming himself down, "want to let the doctor check on those nasty scratches?"

Molly smiled, "Haha, sure thing, doc," she replied, walking over to the available stool and sat on it; John picking up the 4 plasters and antiseptic wipes he could find in the morgue; Sherlock not budging from where he was sitting.

John placed the items on the table behind where Molly was sitting and proceeded to attend to her injuries. After using up the plasters, there were still a number of scratches to go. "Are there any more plasters around here?"

"Umm, not here, sorry. But I think there's a first aid box in the room on the other side of the corridor."

"Wow. Now that's…near."

"Uh, sorry…"

"It's okay. Now, don't you faint, okay? I don't think these scratches would cause massive blood loss, so stay put, yeah?" he joked while getting out of the room.

Molly watched him as he opened and go through the door, causing a soft click when it closed. John does care for his friends and mates, huh?, she thought,

"Looks like John 'the doctor' forgot that wound on the crook of your neck," a deep baritone voice cut through the silence of the morgue. Molly got a fright and brought her left hand up to her heart and looked towards the general direction of the voice. The 'general direction' being 'in front of her'. She could feel her heart beating quicker than usual as she looked up to the detective, who was pointing his left index finger to the shoulder wound on her right. Right there and then, with the close proximity between them, she had to remind herself to breathe.

"Oh, uh…this?" she confirmed, lowering her left hand while bringing up her right one to touch the wound, but Sherlock stopped her hand mid-way with his own.

"No, don't," he warned, letting go of her hand, "deep scratch by the look of it. Toby must have been terrified of water (which cat wouldn't?), for when he jumped up on you, he had his claws out. It dug into your skin. Don't touch," he batted Molly's hand away, which was climbing up to touch her wound again, "more bacteria will come into contact with it, making it more difficult to heal." He knelt down in front of her, bringing his cool grey eyes level with her warm brown ones.

Molly's eyes went wide. "Wha-what are you d-doing?"

Sherlock dug his hand into his jacket pocket and brought out a plaster. "Spare one in my jacket. No idea why." He then placed it on her right palm while stretching his right hand over her shoulder to grab the antiseptics on the table behind her.

At that moment, Sherlock's face was mere inches from Molly's, and she could practically feel his body heat emanating from his lean frame in the cold morgue. He moved a little more forward, for the wipes were further than he had expected them to be, and they were almost cheek-to-cheek. She couldn't help the slight heat creeping up in her cheeks.

He pulled away after finally getting them, she wondering whether her cheeks were as bright as a tomato.

Either not noticing her red cheeks (which was a tad impossibility) or ignoring them, Sherlock took the wipes and with great care cleaned her wound, making Molly hiss at the cool contact of the alcohol on her skin, while closing her eyes tightly. It continued for a short while until it stopped. Sensing that there was no other movement, she slowly opened her eyes to see the man concentrated at a spot on her right, most obviously on the wound. He then took the plaster from her upended palm and sticked it over the wound, uncharacteristically patting it in place gently and announcing "Done". He met her eyes then, and Molly felt like blushing (doing that a quite a lot lately, she thought) while quietly saying a 'thank you' to him.

Before he could move away though, she quickly asked him, "Wh-why'd you do that…?"

Sherlock, frozen in a half-crouch, half-standing up position, frowned. "Why I did what, Molly Hooper? Can you please elaborate your questions?"

"You, uh…you sticked a plaster on my wound. You could have left it alone and…waited for John…" she answered, getting softer.

He rolled his eyes while resuming his previous kneeling position, which was more comfortable, before explaining, "From my continued knowledge on females…"

Now, when have I heard this before, Molly thought, mentally rolling her eyes.

"…they dislike bruises on themselves. Something to do with 'feminine features' and 'flawless skin'."

"Huh? Really?" she said, not believing the sentence. 'Feminine features'? 'Flawless skin'? Seriously?

"Yes 'Huh, really'. I expressed the same opinion when I heard that nonsense," he paused before resuming, "don't you feel a similar way when you got these scratches from the…fight?"

"What? About me worried that they ruin my 'feminine features' and 'flawless skin'?" she asked, clearly emphasising on the adjectives. Sherlock nodded. Molly gave a sigh of resignition before looking down to her hands on her lap, continuing, "No. Not anymore. I, uh, regularly…fought with Toby. Usually over the number of his favourite biscuit he's allowed to have each day. I got kinda used to having my skin not flawless…"

He continued kneeling in front of her, not moving an inch and, God, is this real, not blinking. Molly had to force herself not to look up and stare into the consulting detective's eyes that were full of brilliance and peircing concentration when it came to something of mild interest to him.

"You do not wear make-up then," his voice shook her out of her wandering. It was meant to be a question, but somehow it came out as if he was stating a fact (well, most of the time he did. Must be out of habit then).

Molly chanced a glance up to those eyes that spoke of unusual intelligence before looking down again, quietly mumbled, "I used to. Found out the hard way that make-up did not do me any good…"

She trailed off, remembering the Christmas party those few months ago that she had been dying to earse from her memory. She had walked home in ridiculously high heels in disappointment and full of emotional hurt and had looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, the make-up she had worn to make her look at least like a decent woman covering her face hideously. Sure, her mother had never taught her to wear make-up, but she had made the effort to do research on how to put on the…things.

And the plan somehow blew in front of her face.

From that day onwards, she never touched the make-up containers and tubes; instead she threw half and gave the rest to the teenage girl living a floor below her, who obviously had more make-up experience than her.

While reminiscing, she almost missed what Sherlock's response was. Almost, but she caught the last bit.

"…still not many females are destined to be acquaintances with make-up." He hesitated for a while. When he picked up where he left off, he almost sounded…shy.

"Natural beauty suits you."

Molly looked up, eyes widen. Did he just said…I looked nice?

But the brief moment broke when John came in, hands full with plasters. He saw Sherlock kneeling, head bowed down, while Molly had her eyes wide open, mouth slightly agape. Something happened, and I missed it; damn, John thought before breaking the slight tension in the room with 'What's going on here?'

Sherlock heard him and stood, wiping his hands on his trousers (why do they seem sweaty?) while facing the doctor and said, "You did not attend to the deep scratch on the crook of her neck. If it were to be exposed any longer, it may not heal properly. And there is the scratch on her left cheek. What kind of doctor would miss that?"  
John strode over to where Molly was still sitting, who was resolutely staring at a point slightly to her left. "A doctor who lives with a Sherlock Holmes?" he mumbled his answer. Apparently it was loud enough to be heard in the morgue because Molly brought her hand to her mouth to surpress a giggle while Sherlock huffed in annoyance before moving away, creating distance between himself and the pathologist.

There they were for the next few minutes: John attending to Molly's remaining scratches, Sherlock pointing out what he had missed or done wrong. After a few of his flatmate's remarks, John couldn't help it but finally retorted, "I'm a **docto**r, Sherlock. I **know** what to do. Do you want me to stick a **plaster** over your mouth to **shut you up**?"

Finally, they were done (Sherlock couldn't resist commenting on John being slower than a tortoise). Both John and Molly cleaned up the mess, Sherlock as usual examined the various chemicals she had at hand. After the cleaning, Molly said 'goodbye' to both John and Sherlock before they left, earning her a grin and wave from John and a grunt from Sherlock, who had not looked at her ever since John's return.

She continued to clean her table and was just starting to go through the paperwork in her office when she felt a vibration in her pants pocket. She took out her phone, a text awaiting her. She opened and read it, a small smile forming slowly on her lips.

Try not to get into **any**more fights. –SH

**Tadah! Hope you liked this, as much as I loved writing it! Thank you for reading :DDD**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello everyone ^.^ Been an exciting time so far; absolutely enjoying working out scenes of my favorite pairing! That said, I actually think my Sherlock ain't…'Sherlock'. Even John and Molly… I always read from fic writers who said their Sherlock's quite OOC, and I always reviewed that he was as OC as he could if he were to be in love. Yeah, now that I'm writing a Sherlock fic, I can understand these writers' frustrations. I sincerely hope you accept my Sherlock, cos here's Chapter 4! Mistakes spotted are, as usual, mine (Hamster scratched me! T.T). PS: After typing out the whole thing out, I just noticed this chapter had no caring element (I think). Talk about defying your own title…**

**Disclaimer: I now know how depressed fic writers feel after writing 'I don't own Sherlock, John or Molly; they belong to BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle' over and over again…**

"What in the world is that?" Sherlock Holmes nodded at the paper bag John Watson was carrying as his flatmate ascended the stairs outside Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. On their way there, John had asked him to continue on while he just 'go and grab something', to quote him. Sherlock had to wait outside St Bart's, the weather not exactly what people would normally call 'accommodating'; it had suddenly rained cats and dogs.

"Ah, this? It's a surprise!" John answered, a little too cheery for the depressing weather.

"It's a book, John," Sherlock immediately deduced, "I don't believe it's **that** surprising."

"It's not for you, you vain sod," John mumbled as both of them entered the hospital and made their way to the morgue located in the basement level.

"Oh, really? Not for me, the 'vain sod', as you had elegantly described me? A relief then, because, like I mentioned, it was atrociously unsurprising."

"Yeah, whatever, so please just shut up now before you go into a monologue on how a book in a paper bag is what one would not call a 'surprise'," John said, wiggling his free hand's index finger at Sherlock.

As they walked down the corridor, 4 young nurses were standing by the side at the other end talking. All of them noticed John and Sherlock, regulars there at St Bart's, and smiled warmly. Sherlock felt the temperature in the hospital to be unusually lower than outside, and complained about it to John.

"Why're you telling me that? Not that I can do anything about it."

"For one, you're here. Two, you're here." John just rolled his eyes, not wanting to grace that ridiculous excuse to complain to him with a retort.

Sherlock then took upon himself to flip up the collar of his coat while passing the ladies and they giggled in delight at the movement, heads bent towards each other. John waved at them as he got nearer, which they reciprocated with smiles and waves, and turned forward to face the back of a long black coat; Sherlock's strides being naturally longer than the doctor's, so he was at the front. Being a man who notices everything, he sure doesn't see, John thought, thinking about his giggling admirers.

"Hey, you better be kinder to Molly later on, you know. Today's her birthday," John said, having caught up with the detective.

"Ah, so that's what that 'surprise' was for? A birthday gift for Molly? How very original, John. She'll be very surprised indeed. If she has not yet work out that the address on the paper bag belongs to a bookstore, that is."

John huffed and wanted to remind him again to be nicer to Molly, when someone called out his name. He turned around to see Mike Stamford smiling. They talked for a while before saying their goodbyes and John turned back to see Sherlock long gone. That guy waits for no man. Literally, he thought, moving faster than usual to the morgue. When he arrived, he saw said guy talking to a petite, side-ponytailed lab-coat-clad pathologist beside him. John saw the ever-so-familiar flirting-with-Molly smirk on Sherlock's face and the usual blushing-as-response from Molly before she moved away to retrieve whatever he had asked her for. John approached him, shaking his head. "What ever happened to 'being kinder to Molly because it's her birthday today'?"

"Ah, John. In case you haven't noticed, which I'm sure you hadn't, I gave her a bigger smile than usual," Sherlock responded, pushing open the door to enter.

"Oh really? Didn't seem different from any other smiles, or smirks to be exact, you have given her."

"As usual, you see but do not observe the minute details."

They entered, and their banter immediately came to a halt when they saw the objects on Molly's work desk. "Looks like we're, no sorry, **I'm** not the only one who remembered Molly's birthday," John observed.

A box of chocolates that came with a large golden bow at the top apparently belonged to DI Lestrade, given that the card attached to it said 'Happy Birthday, Molly :) –Greg'.

"Greg? Greg, Greg, Greg…" Sherlock mumbled the name repeatedly, his brain presumably sorting out the various acquaintances he and Molly shared and trying to find this Greg. He had always called the DI 'Lestrade', so it would be difficult for him to remember that the Greg and DI Lestrade would be the same person, given his tendency to 'delete' trivial information, John thought.

But it certainly was not difficult figure out the gift beside Greg's. It was a deerstalker's hat, with a dinosaur-covered card that read 'Happy Bdae, Pathologist. –A'.

"Anderson," both of them deduced simultaneously.

"Molly certainly do not need this card," Sherlock crumpled the card, aimed and threw it into the bin 6 feet away. John opened one of the cupboard doors and stuffed the hat inside.

Molly came back in to see John texting on his phone, a paper bag on the table beside him, and Sherlock sitting down on one of the stools, staring at the gift Greg had given her as a birthday present earlier on. She greeted John, who nodded in response, and walked over to Sherlock, a pile of autopsy reports in one hand, a black coffee with two sugars in the other. She set the coffee down on the table and handed him the reports. "Here, what you needed."

"Who's Greg?" he asked, ignoring the papers in front of him. John was not that all surprised he had not figured out the connection.

"Greg's the, uh, inspector who comes in here, with you? Yeah, that's Greg," she answered, confused that he did not know.

"Him? Oh yes. G. Lestrade, Greg. Why did he give you a birthday gift, even though you hardly see each other and are merely acquaintances? You **are** merely acquaintances, yes?" Sherlock added with a slightly hard edge on the second question. John looked up then, surprised, at the minute difference in tone.

"Huh? Yes, we're…merely acquaintances…" Molly ventured, not knowing exactly what to say.

Sherlock nodded, apparently satisfied with her answer, then took the reports and turned in his seat, facing the desk and read them. Knowing that he disliked (bordering to hate) being disturbed while working, she moved away and started on her paperwork. John received another text and proceeded to read and reply it.

After he was done, he pocketed his phone and decided to start a conversation. Anything to get out of the silence. "So, Greg gave you a gift, huh?"

"Oh, you saw him?" Molly looked up from her writing.

"No, it's the card on that box over there that gave it away."

"Oh. Yeah, he came over a while ago. I thought he had wanted to see a body, but instead passed me this gift. Oh, Anderson gave me one as well! Though, I don't see his present next to Greg's…I wonder where it went?" she wondered, looking around the tiled room and under the tables to find Anderson's gift.

John hid a smile behind his hand while Sherlock faked a cough; both knew they were guilty of the 'disappearance' of the present.

Molly stood up, having abandoned the search and figuring she would find it anyway (more later than sooner, though) and faced John, who was smiling. Then suddenly, she bowed her head in slight embarrassment, a spot of light pink evident on her cheeks, hands clasped together on her lap. John got shocked that he had elicited such a response from the timid girl (lady? woman? He could never think of Molly as a 'lady' nor 'woman') and asked what had happened that caused her to blush. She looked up apprehensively and admitted, "You somehow reminded me of Anderson. He stood there and smiled as well…"

John's left eye twitched. I reminded someone of Anderson. I am **so** honoured.

"Oh, I did? What, he went blond or something?"  
"Wha…? No, no!" Molly quickly tried to amend what she had said, getting the impression the doctor was not at all too pleased to be associated with Anderson, instead became offended, "not physically! It's just…he stood there smiling and holding his gift and he walked to me and gave me the gift and…" she paused to blush slightly, "…gave me a kiss on my cheek. Said it was his second gift to me…"

"Oh god. He…kissed you? Well, on the cheek, but still…kiss?" John repeated, not believing (and frankly, not wanting to believe) what he had just heard.

"Uh, yeah…" Molly replied, absentmindedly bringing up her hand to the spot Anderson had given her the peck. John saw the unconscious movement and, from his peripheral vision, seemed like Sherlock had as well.

"So, uh…" Molly started, desperately wanting to change the subject, but Sherlock beat her to it, standing up from his seat and facing her.

"Riding crop, Molly. And male, mid-thirties, average height, 130 to 154 pounds, skinny. You have one on your list that fits the bill, so chop-chop," he declared, clapping his hands at the 'chop-chop'.

Molly stood frozen at his sudden request but quickly recovered and ran to get the body. John watched her leave and, eyebrow raised, faced Sherlock, who was smirking slightly, also watching her go. "So what's the body for? And that smirk…not good, Sherlock."

Sherlock faced him, smirk intact. "Anderson gave her a 'second gift', eh? I'm not allowed to punch him in the face; no intention in being in handcuffs again. Body would do just fine."

"Eh? So, what?" John frowned, then realisation hit him, "you're gonna beat up a corpse…with Anderson in mind?"

"No, John. I am going to find out the type of bruises that will form on an average man's side when beaten 43 times."

Somehow, John did not buy that.

Molly came in, pushing the corpse on a trolley, a black leather riding crop on his chest. John rolled his eyes and proceeded to go to the break room, not wanting to deal with his flatmate's nonsense any longer. Sherlock moved closer to the corpse, inspected him, saying 'This will do', and, without breaking a stride, picked up the crop and started whipping his side. Molly stood there for a moment, wincing a little at the sound the crop made when came into contact with skin before backing off to her office to complete her paperwork.

Soon, there was silence in the morgue and, after a few more minutes of touching up her work, Molly pushed open the morgue doors, intending to refill the man's coffee.

…only to discover said man had disappeared.

"Sh-Sherlock?" she looked around, whispering his name.

"That guy done? …oh. And he's gone as well. Bloody fantastic'" John said from behind her, and had also noticed the absence of Sherlock's presence.

"I guess Greg texted him on a case?" Molly suggested, moving into the room to clear up whatever mess the man had left in his wake.

"He'd ask me to come along if he had. Huh. Weird," John disagreed, helping her out.

"Well, he's not exactly…what we'd call 'average', so I guess 'weird' is, on him, 'normal'? Then if he were to act 'normal', it would be 'weird', in a sense…" she frowned, a little confused at what she had just said.

"Oh yeah, I've been meaning to tell you: With the addition of Greg's gift, I'm sure you have tons more, yeah? To start a mini collection and label it 'Molly Hooper's Birthday Presents' at home," John smiled at the image of her opening presents at home in front of Toby and getting plush cat toys, which would make him jealous and scratch at them.

"A collection? Yeah, if you count Greg's gift as a collection," she laughed awkwardly.

"Eh? Greg? But, don't you have other gifts? From your family, friends, neighbours?" he enquired, puzzled. Greg's gift (and Anderson's, he grudgingly added) was the only birthday gift she had received all day?

She looked down, eyes closed tightly. He had the impression she was trying her hardest to hold back tears. "Family…nope. Uh, only aunt and uncle, and older brother. They think I'm big enough not to receive any more birthday gifts. Ever since I was 11. Friends, not much. Lost contact with my school ones. Neighbours? Not really close with them."

Molly looked up to see John with a gentle expression and she blinked back the stinging sensation she was feeling in her eyes. "But, they, rather, my brother and some friends, sent me a text this morning, wishing me a happy birthday. I know, not much, but at least they remembered. 'It's the thought that counts', right?" she laughed, sounding a bit pathetic, even to her own ears.

John had never thought who Molly Hooper was outside work context. He had always assumed she would be like any other single lady: going shopping with her besties, meeting up people from her school time, visiting parents, who would no doubt had asked her countless of times when was she getting married because she was not getting any younger. He had never realised Molly, who worked with dead bodies, would be…as lonely as the bodies in the morgue. John had made it a point immediately to visit her more regularly, as a friend, of course. With or without Sherlock. Maybe he could introduce Sarah to her, and they could be close friends? Yeah, that would be n…

"John, what are you standing there for? Move it. We have a case. Murders!" a low, somehow inappropriately cheery, but undoubtly Sherlock-y, voice floated through the room.

John and Molly looked towards the doors to see Sherlock, who was looking a bit red in the face and was breathing slightly harder than usual. He had both his hands behind his back and was standing straight, somewhat like a military general.

"Really? I thought you'd left so suddenly for exactly the same reason," John huffed, crossing his arms in front of him and raising his chin a little higher, as if defying the 'military general'.

Molly looked at both of them, amused. She hardly saw guys fight, only while in secondary school, and they were just playing, not exactly fighting. But to see two grown-ups in cool poses (one having his hands behind his back, the other arms crossed in front), it was just too fascinating.

"As you should have long realised, John, I do not leave my Boswell behind."

"Yeah, in verbalised terms…" John mumbled, Molly giggling softly, having heard him.

"Okay, fine…oh wait, here, Molly!" John rushed to the paper bag and stood beside her, handing her his gift. "Happy birthday," he added gently.

Molly looked at him, eyes minutely rimmed with water, then down to the bag and took it with two hands. "Oh, wow…th-thanked you," she said, touched at the gesture.

"Hey, now you can go on and do the label after all," John joked, her laughing softly.

She looked at him, "May I?", indicating if she could open his present there and then. She wanted him to see that she was absolutely grateful that he had even decided to get her a gift.

"Oh sure! It's yours anyway!"

She put her hand into the bag and took out a rather thick book. "Oh, my! It's the companion book to that movie I watched two weeks ago. Been meaning to buy it, but hadn't the time. Oh, thank you!" she thanked him, beaming. John was surprised she was grateful for such a simple gift, and smiled broadly. "You're welcome!"

Sherlock, having been ignored for too long already (which was by far just 2 ½ mins), decided to begin his 'plan'. "Really, John? A book, for Molly, after what she's done for us? How very thoughtful of you," he pretended to be surprised at the gift, sarcasm dripping in large amounts in his voice. John turned on his heel, facing the consulting detective, arms brought up to cross each other again.

"It's 'what she's done for **you**'. She did a lot for you, she broke certain hospital rules for you, she helped **you**. And there you are, standing, mocking me on my present, when in fact you didn't even know her birthday's today," John retorted, rather harshly. Molly looked at him, a little worried about what was going to happen.

But Sherlock surprised them both when he said, "No, I didn't."

"Oh, you didn't, did you? So what's your gift for her, eh? Oh wait, it was that 'bigger smile' you gave her just now, right? Oh yes, I see. How very **thoughtful** of you," John sarcastically argued.

"John, I don't think yo…" Molly tried to stop the argument, but John stopped her, saying rather loudly while facing her so that Sherlock could hear him as well.

"No, Molly. He needs to hear what I have to say about him. We're his friends, even though he would deny that. I've endured so much as his flatmate alone, and that's fine, because that's just me and him. But I can**not **tolerate anymore when he drags other people intohis nonsense. Especially you, Molly. You deserve better."

"Oh, touching speech, John," Sherlock immediately interrupted, "but have you even wondered why I have my hands behind my back all this while?"

John blinked at him, and finally did wonder. Was he…hiding something? He had assumed he was just standing there, what with him standing ram-rod straight and not giving any indication of hiding something.

"Do not assume. It really is a bad habit of people to do so. Clouds the actual intention," Sherlock rolled his eyes, reading his mind. Then slowly, taking small measured steps, he walked towards Molly, who had her eyes on him, a little afraid on what his intentions were.

"John was right," Sherlock started, "I would deny it if you were to say you were my friends. That was before. To be associated with both of you for this long, if we were not 'friends', then what? In all honesty, I would settle with 'close acquaintances'. That being said, I will only allow a small amount of people into my life. And I…, have to say, am lucky to have John. And you."

He stood in front of her and John, John still not able to see what was behind him. After all this while, still he's being mysterious. And god, his collar's turned up, John thought.

Sherlock brought out his left hand from behind, not wanting John to see the 'something' before Molly. Her eyes widen and John's jaw went slightly slack as Sherlock finally produced a…bouquet of flowers?

But his bouquet was different. His one was thinner in size than the usual bouquets John had bought countless of times to court ladies. No wonder he was able to hide it behind his back so easily. His one did not have fancy designs nor a bow; his was just pink paper with a strip of light blue one to hold the red flowers together.

Oh, and the flowers…weren't exactly 'flowers'…

"Sherlock, why are your flowers made of…paper?" John asked, thoroughly surprised as Sherlock handed Molly his 'flowers' with both hands, who received it with two of her own, gaze transfixed to them. "You do know papers aren't exactly…long lasting…"

"Yes I do know that. I am not all clueless about trivial information."

"Then why'd you buy them? It's much better to buy the real ones. They last…longer."

"What makes you think I bought them?"

"Eh?," he cocked his head to the side, "but surely it's bought."

"John," Sherlock faced him, "you hardly enter my bedroom in the flat, so you would have no idea what I would be doing inside, would you?"

"I don't really want to know, actually," John mumbled, then continued, "Well, yeah. But what does entering your room have to do with those paper…oh." John finally got what had happened.

"Dear me, John. You need to keep up."

"You-you…**made** the flowers?" John stared, eyebrows raised as high as they could. When had he the time to do so? Molly's eyes widen again at that truth, resolutely looking at the bunch of 33 (her age) red paper flowers in her hands.

"Yes John. I do have the ability to do other things besides deducing," Sherlock said, but not looking at him anymore; rather, gauging Molly's reaction, which was what he had always expected: her being shocked speechless and not looking at him. "I believe females much appreciate a gift that's handmade. Earns more sentimental value than the ones bought with money."

John still could not believe him. "Wow. I mean…wow. You actually took the time to make paper flowers?"

"Not a good experience, I have to admit, but certainly a memorable one. Had to re-do several times before they came out presentable and perfect. And paper cuts **are** what the common people say: 'small but evil'."

They waited in silence; Molly looking uncomfortable as the quietness of the morgue was getting to her, Sherlock waiting for her to look up at him, John not knowing why there was silence in the first place. Then, Molly decided to say something and whispered, not looking up, "Thank you."

"Molly, I would appreciate it more if you were to utter those words while looking at me?"

"Oh, thank you!" she whipped her head up and thanked him, a bit too loudly in the room, and blushed furiously red, hands fingering the bouquet.

"Yes, that's more like it," he paused before leaning in, softly whispering, "Happy birthday, Molly Hooper," and, closing his eyes, gave a small kiss on her lips. It was not all-out, nor was it too short. It was just…gentle. Molly got shocked at his action and before she could comprehend what was happening, he pulled out, opening his eyes slowly to reveal the cool grey-coloured irises beneath them, and whispered again, "Second gift to you," mirroring Anderson's words earlier on.

She blushed again, face turning fire truck red, as Sherlock turned and walked past John with a **very** smug smile, and whispering, "Better than Anderson, yes?" before moving out the door, shouting, "John, murders! How exciting!"

"God, he really **is** a vain sod! Vainest of the vain! Wanting **so much **to best Anderson!" John exclaimed, turning to Molly, who was still red, looking at the flowers, and let out a resigned sigh. "…and he certainly did…"

/

Molly cleaned up her work desk at the end of the day (or night; it was almost 11), smiling at Greg's present and re-reading the card. She couldn't believe he had come all the way just to give her a birthday gift! Then she spotted Sherlock's paper flowers nearby, and his 'second gift' came to her. She touched her lips lightly with the tips of her right index and middle finger, recalling the sensation, and giggled softly.

"Oh, wait, I need to get something…" She suddenly remembered something she had left behind in the morgue for so long that actually belonged in a home setting, and opened various cupboard doors, before finding it. And an object she did not thought she owned in the first place.

"Eh? A deerstalker's hat?"

**Ouh, this is long! This is, by far, my ****favourite**** chapter to write: it's ****long,**** I had ****a lot**** to add on, and I'm sort of celebrating Molly's ****birthday****! Sherlock's quite…smug here. I like the idea of him detesting Anderson's gifts, especially the second one, and wanting to out-do him. Hahas, so competitive!**

**Thanks so much for reading; hope you enjoyed this (cos I totally enjoyed writing this) :DDD**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello again! Thank you for the reviews: it sounds cliché, but reading them does make me happy! :)**

**Alright, a shoutout to ****thestarlitrose**** for giving me my first idea since my writer's block: 'What about him killing a spider for her or something?' ****thestarlitrose****, I have, somehow, strayed WAY TOO MUCH from your idea; not gonna give away much, but 1. it's not a spider, and 2. Sherlock does not kill it for her. In fact, I had only kept the part where there's an insect involved. So, uh, hope this actually works. A bit of warning: to me, there's slight OOC-ness here. So, uh, sorry if whatever they've said/done had made your face scrunch up…Mistakes are mine, yes.**

**Disclaimer: Not. Mine. DONE.**

"Really, John? Do you think you could beat me?" Sherlock snorted as both he and John descended the stairs of 221B and out into the London streets at the other side of the door.

It was a cool afternoon that day. Children were laughing in delight as green-coloured leaves floated pass them; adults were enjoying the company of their friends and mates; the elderly were sitting on benches, feeling the strong breeze on their faces. But John Watson was neither 'feeling the strong breeze on his face' nor 'laughing in delight as green-coloured leaves floated pass him'. And he was certainly not 'enjoying the company of his friends and mates', this one being the incorrigible Sherlock Holmes.

"You were obviously cheating!" John did not want to formally admit defeat after their game.

"I did not cheat."

"Oh, yes you did! No doubt you somehow…deduced something just by looking at me!"

"Oh, I did?"

"Yes you did! Then how were you to win **every** round of poker?"

"Oh. I may have noticed minute differences in your expressions…"

"See? Cheat!"

Sherlock just rolled his eyes at the childish banter he had participated in. John huffed and folded his arms in front of him, still annoyed at the fact that his flat mate had managed to win every round (6 in all), and each round he had to pay 50 quid as forfeit. I mean, come on!, he complained in his mind, that man goes to one of the expensive clothing stores in London (tailor-made jackets, for goodness sakes!) and he wants 300 quid from me, who **obviously** needs the money more than him!

Both turned around the corner and entered the grocery store. Mrs Hudson was sick and had needed a few things from the store. John, coincidentally, had intentions of stocking up the cupboards with food (where was the milk?). He remembered Sherlock not helping him in the last grocery trip, when John had to carry bagfuls of rice and bread, and worse, the money machine had not cooperated, making him hurl abuse at it (again) and huffing away in defeat. This time, he was adamant on bringing Sherlock with him, only for the fact that if the machine were to resist him again, at the very least, he would not be the only one stared at.

Sherlock pushed open the door to the store and both made their way to the canned tins section, stopping for a moment to grab a basket. During their time there, Sherlock had pointed out the various toxins found in the tins, and had more than once tried to change John's mind about the brand he was choosing, which one of them being Sherlock's favourite.

John began to doubt whether it really was a good idea to bring Sherlock along after all.

/

Molly was deciding whether to buy the fishcakes or frozen peas and corns when she spotted the meat she had been looking for for the past 10 minutes. "Ah! There you are!" she said triumphly as she stretched out her right hand to grab the meat.

"Molly, hi!"

Because the meat was on a shelf higher than her (sometimes she wondered why she was stuck at the height of a mere 5' 3"), she had to reach up, tiptoeing and slightly raising her left leg up during the process. The cheery voice startled her and made her lose balance, tipping very dangerously to right. She let out a small shriek as she felt herself falling sideways, but was spared falling face first onto the floor by an arm that circled around her abdomen. It swiftly brought her up onto her own two feet, and promptly snaked away. She turned, seeing John frowning, puzzled in her opinion, at Sherlock beside him, who was intent on examining the frozen produce the grocery store had to offer. John turned to her, and raised both his eyebrows.

"Oh, Molly. You look…different."

Molly looked down at her attire and blushed slightly. This was not her normal dressing; she would always be in an oversized shirt or blouse that was more for comfort rather than style, and a sweat- or loose pants, again for comfort. But that day she had no idea why she had the compulsion to wear a light yellow top that actually fits her and not seem as if it was swallowing her up, and a light pink flowing skirt that went below her knees. Her hair was up on its usual side ponytail, but her side fringe was hanging loose on her face, instead of being tied back. No make-up, as usual, but just a bit of lip gloss on her slightly chapped lips. She was wearing yellow flats, not her usual sneakers.

All in all, she was not looking like Molly Hooper from St Bart's.

She looked back up to see John smiling a little. Sherlock (having known his flat mate's tendency to flirt with any woman that had the keywords 'pretty' and 'cute' in the same sentence) glanced at him and snapped him out his daydreaming with 'John, Sarah.'

John, at last, caught himself and sheepishly apologized to Molly. "Sorry for…staring at you. Forgot I had Sarah for a moment there."

Molly blushed again, looking down. "Ah, it's okay. I, uh…do look different. Not my usual attire. No idea I wore all of this," she said, gesturing to herself.

"Oh, so, why you're here? With, uh, Sherlock?" she added, changing the subject.

"Mrs Hudson's not feeling too well today. Since the flat's needed to be stocked up as well, I volunteered myself **and Sherlock** to get her groceries," John began explaining.

Then Sherlock interjected, not looking at him but at the frozen meat produce now in his hands. "You brought me just so that when the money machine rejects you, you won't be the only one stared at when you curse at it."

John looked at him, furiously mad that he would reveal an embarrassing trait of him. He's gonna get it when we're back at the flat, he thought.

"Ah, ha," Molly laughed softly, feeling a little awkward, "so, uh, everything you need? Or is it just that can of tomatoes?"

John, grateful that she did not question his trait, turned back to her to reply. Molly registered the slight upward increase of his eyebrow and the widening of his eyes.

Before he ran off around the corner of the shelves.

Molly gawked at the surprise reaction, with Sherlock furrowing his eyebrow in slight confusion. He turned to Molly, putting back the meat, and saw what John saw.

Molly had a feeling she was looked at and adjusted her gaze to see the detective staring at her. Or rather, at a point above her head.

"Sh-Sherlock? Wha-what is it?" She was not liking the way Sherlock had his eyes resolutely somewhere above her.

He slid his gaze down to meet her eyes, but she had turned to her right to look at her reflection on glass.

She did not like what she saw.

Up on the left side of her head sat on object. A live, breathing object. Eventhough her reflection was a little blurry (due to the cool air in that section), she could still make out what it was.

"A…a…grasshopper…on my…head…"

"Amazingly, it's rather large for its species."

"Sherlock, that's not helping!" she harshly whispered, not wanting to make a scene.

She closed her eyes tightly and tried to calm down, doing her best to dispel the image of the rather large yellow-green grasshopper sitting rather comfortably on her head. After a minute of waiting, she opened them, only to see the…thing still on her head.

Staying very still, but not turning her head, she spoke up. "It's still there. On my…head."

"Yes. It has not moved, apparently."

"Aren't you going to do something about it?" she hissed nervously.

He actually looked puzzled. "Do what?"

"Oh I don't know. Something like TAKING THE GRASSHOPPER OFF MY HEAD?"

"Ah. I think that can be done."

With that, in the reflection, she saw him coming into view and ultimately standing beside her. He lifted his right hand and caught the grasshopper. For a moment, Molly thought it was over; she could finally move. But Sherlock somehow lost his hold on it and dropped it, making the grasshopper bounce on her head. She shrieked at the sensation of it on her head and reflectively moved to her right, but he stopped her by grabbing her arm and pulling her close to him, her bumping sideways onto body.

She stood there, not daring to move, with Sherlock still having his hold on her arm. She felt something over her shoulder and his right hand, forearm resting on her right shoulder, came into view, holding an object.

A yellow-green, 'rather large for its species' object.

"Take it away. I don't like it!" Molly whimpered, pushing Sherlock's hand away.

She heard a soft chuckle from her left and felt him move away, letting go of the grip he had on her arm, which she did not realize he was still holding to.

"Grasshoppers, Molly. Not much to be afraid of."

"If you're not female, which I am!" she blushed with embarrassment.

She turned to look at him and found him thinking about something, due to the slight crease of his brows. What's there to think about, she wondered, then got her answer.

"Females are afraid of grasshoppers?" he somehow asked it as if it were a foreign concept for him to understand.

"Umm, to the majority, yes…" Gosh, doesn't he know?

Ho nodded slightly, then turned around, unconsciously taking the meat produce he held earlier on.

/

"Afraid of grasshoppers? You're an army doctor," Sherlock mocked as he and John walked back to Baker Street. John was carrying all four grocery bags; Sherlock was being a bastard as usual-not helping.

"It's **ex**-army doctor. And I had…a history with them," he retorted, trying to recover whatever pride he had left.

"You must be female then," Sherlock mumbled absentmindedly.

"What?"

"Nothing," he waved it off dismissively. "I'll need to use the pineapples though, so give them to me later."

"Experiment again?" John sighed. "On what, this time? Left foot? Right pinky? A set of week-old tongues?"

"No. This," he declared, taking out his hand from his deep coat pocket to reveal a clear transparent Ziploc bag, with holes punctured in it.

So clear John could see what was in it.

Grasshopper. It's larger than the last time I saw one, he numbly recalled, before blacking out.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and kept the bag. "No doubt about it-you're female."

**PS. Listening to Cabin Pressure 2x01 to 2x04 while typing this down. Martin Crieff…*shakes head***** Hope this was okay; this is the first time I'm nervous about my plot/characterization…**

**Thank you for reading! :DDD**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hai! New chapter here :) This idea, 'Sherlock lets Molly borrow his holy scarf', came from ****lostmypen120**** (pfft, no matter how many times I read that sentence, I always smirk at 'holy'). Ah, ****lostmypen120****, like the previous chapter, I…uh…changed your idea a bit as well: instead of 'holy scarf', Sherlock lends her something bigger. So, uh…let's continue on! –really need to stick to the original idea; got to stop changing the elements- In case you haven't known thus far, this story has never been beta'd, so mistakes spotted, as usual, are mine.**

**Disclaimer: I added a new character for the purpose of this story-so he's mine' but other than that, Sherlock and Molly do not belong to me. To BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, yes.**

Molly Hooper felt happy that night. The night sky displayed a full moon while the surrounding was cool and clean of rubbish. And also, that night, she had a date. She looked down to what she was wearing, and was happy with her light-coloured pink sleeveless dress that somehow showed all the right curves, which she had not realized she had. To top it off, a silver-coloured heart-shaped necklace seemed a perfect fit for a first date in a restaurant.

"Another date, Molly?" someone whispered into her right ear.

Startled, she jumped back, stepping into a newly-made water puddle that slightly soaked her pink ballet flats.

"Not one of elegance, I see," the owner of the voice smirked.

"Sherlock, please…" she blushed slightly in embarrassment, and looked up to him.

She saw Sherlock Holmes's face in profile, looking out into the streets and shops opposite of where they were. The moonlight created dark shadows on his face that somehow exaggerated his beauty, one he was ignorant of. He turned to face her, to see her brown eyes train on his face. He frowned.

"Something the matter?"

Molly caught herself staring at the detective's face and turned to look forward, slightly reddening again. "No, no…nothing's the matter…" she whispered shyly.

"Again I ask: another date, Molly?"

She sighed and pressed her left hand onto her cheek, feeling her hand a little too cold. "You know I have a date. Why are you asking?"

"Because I don't want you to have the mistake of dating another gay consulting criminal, who will want to kill me."

"Sherlock," she glanced at him sideways, hands now rubbing her arms, "not all men I dated were…evil."

"Evil, no, if you exclude the consulting criminal. Bad, yes."

"Oh yes?" she asked, suddenly feeling that the night had become colder than she had expected.

"Half of your dates ran away after you mentioned your profession, a twelfth dated you due to dares, and one stole your purse. Have you forgotten all those?"

Oh dear, she **had** forgotten all those.

"B-but still…I think this one'll be a nice one. He's from St Bart's, so…" she tried to counter his statement.

"You said that for that other date who you met after spilling juice on his briefcase. And didn't he had a wife?" he flatly recalled.

Molly closed her eyes and calmly told herself, 'There's nothing to gain if you were to continue the subject, so might as well drop this, Molls.'

They stood in silence for a few more seconds, Molly wondering why Sherlock was still here. Shouldn't he be on a case or something? Then she gave an involuntary shiver that coursed through her whole body. She realized then that night was definitely colder than before.

"Tonight's temperature is lower than the usual, by 3 degrees. Did you not check the weather forecast before going out without your coat?" Sherlock spoke up, seemingly having heard her thoughts.

She stilled at his question, thought for a moment, then mumbled, "I guess I got too excited for this date that I forgot those two things…"

Another shiver attacked her, this time lasting longer. She felt her teeth chatter and goosebumps on her arms and legs. That was when a large black object came into her view and it took her a moment to recognize it.

"A…coat?"

"You are obviously cold; rubbing your arms, teeth chattering, body rigid against the cold. Not to mention shivering twice. This coat will keep you warm until your date arrives," he stated matter-of-factly.

Her eyes moved from the coat, up to his arms and reached his self. "It's…your coat," she observed dumbly.

"Yes, it's mine. There is no need for me to wear another coat, is there?" he rolled his eyes, then, shaking the hand that held his coat, added, "Aren't you going to take this?"

"Yes! Oh god, I mean…if, if you are…" she trailed off, embarrassed at her immediate **and very eager **'yes'.

"I offered, so yes, I am sure," he said, rather impatiently.

Molly hesitated for a second and, biting her lip nervously, took the offered coat, wearing it around herself.

The coat, belonging to Sherlock who was obviously way larger than her, made it look as if Molly was a three-year-old trying out her 13-year-old brother's shirt: it covered the whole length of her small frame, even reaching below her flats. The collar, which was already turned up, covered her neck and cheeks. She could hardly get her hands visible as the long sleeves were obviously longer than her arms. A pair of teenage girls snickered at the sight of Molly drowning in an oversized coat, because she was, stretching her arms at other side of her body and looking down at herself. With the coat buttoned up at the front, she certainly looked like some abnormal scarecrow.

Then out of impulse, she hugged herself and slightly turned from left to right, eyes closed with a happy smile on her face. She was not only happy for the tremendous amount of warmth that she was getting, she could smell a little of Sherlock in the coat: a slight whiff of cologne, pinewood and black coffee. She was brought back to reality by Sherlock's slightly surprised voice, "What are you doing?"

She stopped abruptly, opened her eyes and looked at him, hands still around her body and large coat though. "Do…what?"

"That turning and hugging thing after you donned my coat."

She reddened furiously at her childish action and decided not to tell him the truth. Okay, part truth then. "I'm happy for the warmth!"

He raised an eyebrow at her and before he could ask her to elaborate on why she had to do the unnecessary actions, she turned the subject to him. "And won't you…be cold?"

"I'm wearing a blazer and rather long pants, in case you haven't notice," he stated, slightly irritated at her concern, not looking at her but at the passer-bys.

"Oh, I, uh…"

"And I have a better chance of retaining heat, being male and larger built than you and all," he added, interrupting her. She merely nodded in assent, not knowing what to reply to that.

"Speaking of male and larger built," he suddenly leaned in, whispering, eyes trained on someone approaching them, "your date's here. And he's an Avengers freak."

She was slightly confused at that last statement as he moved off, his trademark blue coat around his neck blowing slightly in the breeze.

"Hi Molly! So uh, saw you with that guy…" a kind voice took her away from her thoughts.

"Oh, hi Ben! He's, uh, a friend, that's all!" she perked up quickly at Ben's arrival.

"Okay…why's your coat so large?" he frowned in confusion, having noticed the oversized coat on her body.

"Ah ha. It's…quite cold now…so I picked out this…to wear?" she finished her sentence.

"Anyway, let's go?" he smiled, offering his arm, which she took, smiling shyly, and walked with him to the restaurant.

/

Don't blame Molly for this, because she really did like Ben. He was friendly, helpful and quite attentive to her during the first part of their date. But she felt bored after awhile, though she dared not voiced that out to him, for fear it would hurt his feelings.

He was talking about the Avengers more than about himself.

After they had gotten round the pleasantries and usual questions asked on a first date, Molly asked him what his favourite movie was. She had expected a personal response: about how felt about the movie, what he liked and disliked about it, whether he thought it worthy to watch again. She had expected him to talk about himself-not about the 'Avengers Initiative', Bruce Banner's history, or Iron Man's (or was it Pony? She wasn't exactly tuned in to the conversation that time) alcoholism in the comics.

An Avengers freak? What an understatement.

When he started on Captain America's shield, Molly had had enough; faking a gasp, she stood up and gave Ben a peck on his cheek. "Oh dear, sorry Ben, but I have morning shift tomorrow and I really need the rest. So sorry!" she hurriedly apologized.

Just when she left the restaurant, Ben called out, "Molly! You forgot your coat!"

My coat? When did I hav…SHERLOCK!, she thought hysterically. Oh god, if, if I don't have it with me, don't return it to him, I'm, I'm…DEAD.

She turned around, seeing Ben hurrying to pay the bills and rushing out to her. "Here, let me wear it on you?" She nodded, and allowed him to wear it on her.

"Do you mind if I were to walk you home?"

"No, not at all," she replied politely.

They walked in slightly awkward silence for a few minutes, before Ben said, "Well, that was nice, the date."

She stared at him when he sighed loudly. He stopped, and she stood in front of him, not wanting to block anybody's way.

"Why you sighed?" she asked worriedly.

"It's just…you're the first woman I went on a date who have not complained about my Avengers obsession," he finally confessed.

She smiled softly, as he continued, "I don't have many people to talk to, and even if I do, they don't want to spend their time listening to someone talking non-stop about his obsession, right? So when I get dates, I somehow blurt out my knowledge, always forgetting that my companion is bored with it. Yeah, you must be bored back then, huh?" he added sheepishly.

"Yeah, I did," she admitted, "but I do understand about not having someone to listen to you ramble on about your obsession."

"You do?" She nodded.

"You know," he continued, "I may have killed my chances at a relationship…again…but I really like you. You don't mind us being friends, do you?" he asked, albeit nervously, worried about her response.

She gave him a warm smile and a hug. "I really don't mind having another friend! Besides, you can ramble on about your obsession to me; I'll try to get interested in the Avengers, yeah?"

"You would?" he asked, incredulously. "No one ever offered to do that for me."

She nodded, a big friendly smile on her face. He grinned broadly before they continued on their journey; Ben droning on about the Avengers, Molly, now slightly interested, asking question. They finally reached her building before Ben stopped and observed. "Your friend's here." He turned to her, grin in place, "Not exactly a date for a relationship, but I'm certain I've gotten a new friend."

"Yup, someone who'll **finally **listen to your Avengers speech," she playfully mocked.

He laughed and waved goodbye to her. "See you at St Bart's then, soon!"

"You too!" she replied and walked up to where Sherlock stood, near the trees.

"Date went well then?" he asked, slightly surprised.

"Well, not one that'll continue to a relationship, but I got a new friend!" she beamed happily. It was contagious as Sherlock felt the corner of his lips tugged upwards.

Once she finished beaming, she realized where she was and who she was talking to; her shy nature took over her. "Uh…why are you here?"

He sighed at the difference in her demeanor, but answered her. "I would like my coat back."

She did not know why, but she felt disappointed for a moment. Then she frowned at her response. She looked down and asked shyly, "B-but I could return it…to you when you…come to St Bart's, as usual…"

"Getting comfortable in my coat, is it?" he teased.

"What no here!" she hurriedly took off her coat, removing the warmth and letting the cold air attack her body. She handed it to him, who took it silently and wore it around his self.

"I could wait until then, but I don't want John to be asking meddling questions on its absence," he explained, adjusting his scarf.

"Oh," was all she could verbalize before he walked away.

He turned around abruptly, hands in his coat pockets. "You look nice, by the way."

Molly smiled as she watched Sherlock go, his coat billowing around him.

Mr Swirly-Coat.

She stilled at that thought, and then giggled, making her way into the building and flat.

Yeah, she thought childishly, if Sherlock's a superhero, his name would be Mr Swirly-Coat.

**I would like more ideas to play around with –very ****very**** few now- , so if you have some, please share them in your review?**

**Thank you for reading; hope you enjoyed this :DDD**


	7. Chapter 7

**Umm, as you all are aware, this fic was put to complete, due to my exams coming up soon, and also cos I tend to have ideas totally not relating to caring. But after the recent review I got, it made me remember about it, because I actually have thought of including where Sherlock gets his 'women information'. So now this is the closure of this dear fic of mine, and sincere thank you for the support thus far - thank you to those who took the time to review since Chapter 1: Alexcutiepie, Lannie, foreversherlock, rory'sfan04, Jest Tal, faeryenchanter, Michelle, Kataraang0, Anongal, louisethelibrarian, IvPayne, Snicklefritz, thestarlitrose, daisherz365, coloradoandcolorado1, SWood, Hellscrimsonangel, lostmypen120, animelover91895, and the two different Guest, and big hugs to those who favourite :) Still, it's not the end. One-shots are my new thing ^.^ - sorry this was long. This chapter's directly after what happened in the previous chapter.**

John stayed up, waiting for Sherlock to return that night. It had been a weird few weeks recently, and he felt the need to know what had happened to his flatmate.

Him being nice to Molly? Now that was a scenario he had never dared dream would come true.

The part with him making paper flowers for her had started to make him wonder. Why would he bother to do something nice in the first place? It really was nothing like what Sherlock would do, nonetheless voluntarily.

When Sherlock announced he was going out that evening, John was in the kitchen making tea, as usual. He brought his cup to his armchair and set the cup on the arm, seating himself carefully. "Oh yeah? I'm not interested."

It was rather true that John did not care where his flatmate would be going. As long as he gets some time off from someone's tendency to shout at him to bring him his phone (which always happens to be in the pocket of the jacket that someone was wearing), excessive scrappings of a violin, and the shootings on the wall, he would not question his whereabouts. But still, a small part in him would always wonder what the hell the git's up to, and whether he'd be back with knife cuts and purple bruises on his face. That small part came out, and made John wait anxiously for Sherlock's return to 221B.

Alas, after an additional 27 minutes, the curly haired man came through the door, not without slamming it open and startling a half-awake John first. John rubbed his eyes and blearily watched Sherlock undo his scarf and hang it on the coat rack. He was unbuttoning his coat when John asked, "Where'd you go?"

"Nowhere," was his clipped reply. He was finished with his coat and proceeded to hang it beside his scarf.

John was fully awake now. Sherlock being secretive? Now something breally/b did happen, for Sherlock never bothered to hide from him about where he had been to. In fact, for a number of times, he had even complained about John's absence.

"Sherlock, these past few weeks, did something happen, or something?" he ventured, not knowing how he would react.

"'Something happen'? What do you mean?" Sherlock walked over to the couch, folding his cuffs as he did so, and flopped down it, his long legs hanging off the other end.

"Well, for one, you're being...human."

"Oh really, John? I had no idea I wasn't one all this while," Sherlock sarcastically exclaimed.

"Not that!" John wished he had something hard to throw at him. "No," he sighed and continued, "you're becoming nicer, gentler towards people, Sherlock. And it's different, because you don't do that to...basically anyone! So what's with the change?"

Sherlock curled in the couch so that his back was the only thing visible to John. "None of your business."

"Seriously, Sherlock. Secrecy?"

"Alliteration. Good job, John," Sherlock 'praised' him.

"Sherlock!" John had had enough. He had never seen his friend being so resistant about his whereabouts, and it was starting to scare him. Who knows, he may have been taking some kind of new drug; maybe that was what brought out the new side of him? John did not like this theory, so he stood up immediately, warming himself up to an interrogation with Sherlock Holmes.

It would have made a bigger impact, if the cup did not wobble on the armrest and lost its balance, breaking into pieces, with tea seeping onto the carpet and spoiling the moment. John looked down, horrified for a moment. It was Mrs Hudson's best carpet; the last time they -SHERLOCK- dirtied it, she never let them forget about it for 2 weeks. Sarah had giggled at him being scolded by Mrs Hudson about it when she came over and it was embarrassing. An ex-Army doctor being reprimanded by an elder woman over a stain on the carpet? Not cool, to say the least.

"I believe you'll be up to your ears with the voice of one Mrs Hudson soon," Sherlock sniggered from the couch.

"Shut up, you!" John glared at his back, squatting down to clean up the mess he had made as best as he could, while thinking of a suitable retort to say.

Just then, he remembered Sherlock's quip about him hardly entering his room, thus not being aware of what he was doing. John figured the cause of Sherlock's change in behaviour would be in his room, and he smiled mischeviously. "So you won't be telling me what the hell had happened to you, huh? No problem, your room will provide the answer."

Sherlock tensed and slowly realised that John had meant that he would be looking into his room. He immediately turned himself and bounced out of the couch, only to hear a door slam somewhere in the flat. Damn, he's fast.

/

John could not stop gawking for 5 minutes even after he left Sherlock's room. His eyes wide, mouth hanging open, he looked questioningly at the owner of the room.

"It was for research," Sherlock said, plucking solemnly at the strings of his violin.

"I never knew 'research' included monthly subscriptions to Cleo and Metropolitan."

"Well, I need to get my information from **somewhere**!" he said, almost shouting, putting down his violin unceremoniously on the coffee table.

John gave him a sort of pained look. "But Cleo? Really? Most of the 'information' they have are about how to improve your performance in…bed…"

"Obviously, I ignored those useless to my cause!"

John scratched his head at Sherlock's unusual method of retrieving information on women. Well, sure, Cleo and Metropolitan are quite female-centered magazines, but are they really that trustworthy? Heck, John tried on one of his ex once one of the tips suggested by one of that kind of magazines on how to make your girlfriend less angry at you; the result he got was actually the opposite of what was predicted from that magazine and he had a red mark on his left cheek that did not fade until four days later as evidence.

Still, you cannot exactly do 'research' on women; each of them are different, and no two are alike, so whatever that was said about a female in the magazine may not be true for another. Was it not better to just talk to one? Since Sherlock's the one with loads of brain cells, John was positive he could have at least 4 girls hanging on to his every word.

Oh yes, John thought, Sherlock severely lack social skills. I forgot.

Then he frowned. There's no need for him to be researching on women for a woman's sake, is there? As Sherlock, finding John's mind to be miles away, wandered to the fridge to grab a couple of biscuits to munch on, John ticked off with his fingers Sherlock's female acquaintances, and see whether any one of them had made his flatmete this obsessed with female magazines.

First off, Sergeant Donovan. Bickering non-stop with him and in numerous occassions called him Freak with a capital F. Don't think Sherlock would be too fond of the nickname, so she is definitely out of the list.

Next, Sarah. Hardly talks to him, but when they do, he deduces her. Has never felt her stinging slaps before, though; lucky. Anyway, other than that, very less interaction compared to Donovan, so no, not her.

John raked his head for more female names, and found Irene. Dead, alive, who cares? Been a long while since he last saw her, and hope it continues to stay that way.

Mrs Hudson? Ugh, John thought, giving a fake shudder. No offence, but he did not think Sherlock would go for someone almost twice his age.

That only leaves Molly. …aha.

John smiled and glanced at the 'reseacher of women'. Looks like someone's not immune to the pathologist's shy charms.

'Ahem, I was wondering, Sherlock," John said conversationally when Sherlock flopped onto the couch once more, "what made you want to do research on women?"

"I lack information in that area, so isn't it logical that I would try to learn more about it?" Sherlock answered as his eyelids drooped, indicating he was about to enter his mind palace soon.

But John would not let him. "Are you sure it's not because of a certain Molly Hooper?"

The man on the couch actually turned rigid and slowly directed his eyes on him. John became unerved by the action.

"Well, it-it is true, right? Molly?" he confirmed gently.

There was a moment of silence before Sherlock gave a sigh and sat up, his head in his hands on his lap. "Yes," came the muffled confession.

"Aha. So what did she do?"

Sherlock pondered about telling his flatmate, but finally decided he had more experience than him, so he spilled the beans. "I overheard Molly talking to one of her collegues."

John waited patiently for an elaboration, but after a minute, when none came, he grew frustrated. "You might want to expand on that. I don't have amazing inference skills."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood up, pacing the room. "I was walking past the lab door when I heard her. She was saying something like 'Sherlock's not a freak! He's just different from us that's all!'. There was a reply that aggravated Molly more, for she said, 'Look, I work with him! He's not what all those nasty rumours are saying about him! He's actually one of the most dedicated and honest person in a world where corruption and lies happen 24/7!' I honestly did not particularly understand what her last sentence meant, actually."

Sherlock stopped pacing and turned to stare at John with slightly wide eyes. He must be confused about why Molly defended him even after the treatment she had received from him, not many of them nice, John thought, and expressed this to him as well.

Sherlock nodded. "I guess she saw something in me. I have no idea what it may be, but it had made her…care for me, even after everything she's been through around me. That she was still willing to defend me even after the treatment she'd gotten from me, it made me want to repay her kindness. I don't like being in debts."

"So you think receiving Molly's kindness is a sort of 'debt' you have to pay back? She expects nothing in return, in actual fact!"

"How would you know?"

"Whatever Molly does, it comes from her heart. She does it sincerely and has never expected some sort of reward. That is just who she is: kind."

Sherlock looked at John again before giving a brief nod in understanding.

"So, this won't be the end of you being nice to Molly, right?" John was worried that after this, Sherlock would go back to his old ways, and eventually hurt Molly's feelings again.

"Well, Molly has done a lot of kindness to me. It's only fair I repay each and every one of them, even if she doesn't expect them being returned."

"So, wait, those magazines are not exactly for 'women research', are they?"

"Half the intent was still for research, yes. But I don't know how I should go about repaying her kindness, thus the subscriptions to various female magazines to aid me."

"You could have asked me," John said, pointing to himself.

"And risk saying something bad? No thank you."

John, offended at that, pointed the finger at him instead. "You know what, you're damn lucky you've not gotten so much as a glare from Molly when you followed the tips those magazines offered. And I once had to endure a lecture on why I shouldn't trust those 'fake advice'."

"Maybe because I'm much better than you?" Sherlock joked, giving him a smirk as he walked back to his room to continue reading the magazines.

"No, because you have cheekbones," John mumbled morosely.

**Again, thank you, hope you enjoyed this, and please look out for my one-shots :DDD**


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